I promised myself: Before your 18th birthday, you're going to be

Host: The city was alive that night — not the gentle kind of life, but the electric, feverish pulse that throbbed through the streets of Paris like a song played too fast. Rain slicked the cobblestones, turning the lights of the boutiques into trembling streaks of gold and crimson. Inside a narrow brasserie, two voices cut through the hum of conversation and the clatter of cutlery.

Jack sat by the window, his jacket damp, his hair tousled from the wind. A half-empty glass of red wine stood before him like a punctuation mark in a sentence he hadn’t finished. Across from him, Jeeny was radiant under the warm light, her eyes alive with the kind of fire that only comes from believing — or remembering what it felt like to believe.

Host: Outside, a man on a motorbike roared past, leaving behind a faint scent of petrol and rain. Inside, the air was heavy with steam, smoke, and ambition.

Jeeny: smiling softly “You know what Nicolas Ghesquière once said? ‘I promised myself: Before your 18th birthday, you're going to be at Jean Paul Gaultier. And it worked. I was hired.’ I love that. It’s… intoxicating. The idea that willpower can bend reality.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Or that arrogance can masquerade as destiny.”

Host: The light flickered as a waiter passed by, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. The world outside blurred into streaks of color, like a painting melting under rain.

Jeeny: laughing “You always have to turn inspiration into cynicism, don’t you?”

Jack: “No, I just have a thing for realism. Promises don’t make dreams happen — work does. Luck does. Timing, connections, opportunity. The rest is a nice headline for interviews.”

Jeeny: leaning in “But he was hired, Jack. Before 18. He made it happen.”

Jack: “And how many didn’t? For every Ghesquière, there are a thousand others who made the same promise and failed. We only quote the ones who got lucky. It’s called survivor bias.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed, a spark of defiance dancing in the amber glow of the brasserie. She set her cup down, hard enough to echo slightly, like the first note of an argument.

Jeeny: “It’s not about luck. It’s about belief. You think the world moves on logic alone? No — it moves on people mad enough to tell themselves it’s possible. Belief is the spark before work becomes fire.”

Jack: smirking “And what about those who burn out chasing that fire? Belief without reality is just delusion dressed up as ambition.”

Jeeny: “Delusion is where all revolutions begin, Jack. Every visionary starts by believing something irrational — that they can change what everyone else accepts. That’s how fashion, art, science, everything evolves. You think Ghesquière cared about odds when he was dreaming in some small French town?”

Host: Jack tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if her words were pieces of a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the window, soft but insistent — like the sound of persistence itself.

Jack: “You sound like a motivational poster.”

Jeeny: smiling tightly “Better that than a warning label.”

Host: Silence stretched between them — not hostile, but charged. The café around them faded into background noise: clinking glasses, low laughter, a distant accordion playing from somewhere unseen.

Jack: after a long pause “You really think just believing is enough?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s where everything begins. Before Ghesquière was a creative director, he was a kid staring at fashion magazines, making sketches in the dark, and whispering promises to himself. He believed before anyone else did. That’s what made him dangerous — and great.”

Jack: quietly “Dangerous, yes. But for every dream that works, ten dreams break their owners. Faith has casualties, Jeeny. You don’t hear their interviews.”

Jeeny: “But you see their influence. Even the ones who fail move the world a little. That’s the thing about belief — it leaves traces, even when it doesn’t win.”

Host: The rain stopped suddenly, as if even the sky wanted to listen. The air between them shimmered with quiet intensity, both of them holding onto their words like weapons that could also heal.

Jack: sighing “You think I stopped believing because I’m cynical. But I was like that once — made promises, chased things too big for me. I told myself I’d build my own company before 30. I worked, I fought, I broke… and nothing happened. At some point, you learn that desire isn’t destiny.”

Jeeny: softly “No, Jack. You learned how to survive disappointment. That’s not the same thing.”

Host: The words hit him harder than he wanted to admit. His hand tightened around the wine glass, his knuckles whitening, the faint tremor of vulnerability escaping his control.

Jack: “And what if the world just doesn’t care about your promise?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep it anyway. Because it’s not about the world — it’s about you. The promise is what keeps you from giving up. Even if no one sees it fulfilled.”

Jack: bitterly “So faith for faith’s sake?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Faith as fuel. You said it yourself — work matters. But work without vision is just labor. The promise gives it meaning.”

Host: The waiter refilled their glasses. The light danced briefly across the red wine, catching both of their faces — one tense, one serene — reflections of conviction and doubt intertwined like threads in a tapestry.

Jeeny: “You know why I love that quote? Because it’s not about destiny. It’s about ownership. ‘I promised myself.’ No one else. That’s the kind of strength no failure can take away.”

Jack: quietly “So it’s not about being hired. It’s about keeping the promise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his expression softening, a shadow of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. The rain started again — lighter this time, almost rhythmic, like applause from the night itself.

Jack: “You know, there’s something powerful about that. Promising yourself something and making the world catch up.”

Jeeny: whispering “That’s how all change begins.”

Host: The streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, glowing like scattered stars fallen from the sky. Inside, the brasserie hummed with quiet music, the rhythm of two souls balancing between doubt and faith.

Host: And as Jack raised his glass, his eyes found Jeeny’s, the faintest flicker of belief returning — not in fate, but in the fierce, trembling beauty of a self-made promise.

Jack: “To the ones who dare to promise themselves impossible things.”

Jeeny: lifting her glass “And to the rare ones who make them true.”

Host: The glasses met — a soft, deliberate clink, like a secret vow. Outside, the rain turned silver under the lamplight, and for a fleeting moment, the city felt infinite — a reminder that somewhere between effort and faith, dreams begin to take form.